


Fresh From The Cow

by Gnomeybum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 14:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4832591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomeybum/pseuds/Gnomeybum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their latest kill, the tension builds to bursting point between Hannibal and Will, releasing in a bloody and visceral joining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh From The Cow

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've written bits and pieces of smut before but have always gotten embarrassed and toned it way down. Buttttttt, I decided to just fucking do it, and then I threw in a bit of good, old fashioned cannibalism to boot. Because, hey, if I'm going to Hell, I may as well go down swingin'.
> 
> If you wanna follow me on tumblr, you can find me at http://manicpixiedreamweeb.tumblr.com

It could have been a classical oil painting for all its form and beauty; The Hanged Man and the Martyrs, perhaps? The composition was a little muted and showed an almost Catholic level of self-restraint but, Hannibal thought with glee, it would soon be much less Van Eyck and much more Goya.

The blindfolded man hung between he and Will with his hands bound, suspended from the ceiling with only the tips of his toes skittering along the floor. His bare skin was as pale as the whitewashed walls and the floor tiles dipped slightly to lead into a shiny steel drain, ominously and purposefully set at the man’s feet. In spite of the clean, fresh beauty of the unmarked flesh, Hannibal found himself scarcely able to pull his eyes away from the unkempt, scruffy little man who stood across from him with his chest heaving in anticipation, his dark eyes shining with something that could have almost been mistaken for desire. As though the auspicious occasion of their shared hunt (‘ _murder husbands_ ,’ he remembered with almost a snigger) gave him no cause for ceremony, he was flannel bound and ungroomed as ever, but somehow there was an electricity about him that almost made Hannibal forgive his aesthetic faux pas.

“What do you think, Dr Lecter?” Will asked casually, gesturing toward the thin blade in Hannibal’s hand, as though he were presenting him with paint samples rather than enquiring after his preferred method of extinguishing the hanged man’s life.

But though his question was nonchalant, almost cavalier, that frisson of – what? nervousness, excitement, fear? – never went away, and he was surprised to find Will’s hands a-tremor with a frenetic energy. He was swallowing in quick, furtive gulps, as though the air was thin and he was suffocating from the inside out, and Hannibal found himself suddenly low and heavy with the weight of his need to touch the man.

But he pulled himself back and turned finally to the limp man between them, still awake, just barely, and coming-to with every second they spent wondering about his fate. Behind his blindfold, his eyes were moving in confusion, and his drugged mouth was slowly trying to form syllables. It was time for action.

“Tell me, Will,” he finally asked quietly, the words sticking in his throat as he moved closer to the boy, every inch of his clothing feeling suddenly very hot and very tight, “have you ever drunk milk fresh from the cow?”

Will didn’t move, his body wound taut and tense with the sudden closeness to Hannibal, his hands opening and closing into fists. He looked up at the taller man, his lips parting to answer but no sound coming out as he felt the warm glow of the doctor’s breath touch his skin.

“No,” he finally replied, shaking his head, “I haven’t.”

“You must,” Hannibal purred in his low, lilting tone, “It is exquisite. Warm and thick and creamy, like nectar, like life and birth.”

Will didn’t respond, though his head tipped back ever so slightly as he keened toward Hannibal, unconsciously leaning in toward the heat that emanated from his slick, suited frame. His throat was long and slender and taut, and Hannibal’s tongue ached to suck at the throbbing pulse that sent waves of movement along ropes of muscle and into the hollow of his throat.

“Would you like to try it?”

“Now?” Will managed to ask almost flinching at the way his wavering voice cut through the heavy, empty silence that surrounded them.

“Something like it, yes.”

“Yes,” was Will’s hissed answer, immediate and desperate, though hidden behind a mask of quiet restraint.

“Then on your knees, please.”

There was a pregnant pause where neither moved, their eyes unwavering from one another, daring the other to spring to action. Will was hesitant, almost shy, knowing neither what to expect or how to take Hannibal’s politely issued demand, but after a second he lowered himself, falling to his knees at Hannibal’s feet, his gaze never once leaving the doctor’s.

His hands hovered in the air, searching to run along the length of Hannibal’s long legs, grasping at empty space as though he were clenching fine, chequered material in bunches beneath his fingers. But he finally rested them at his sides, restraining himself for fear of appearing uncouth and ill mannered before his doctor. His mouth was already filling with saliva, gushing forth in hungry waves, and he swallowed it down, a little embarrassed by the fervour of his own hunger, if that was what this feeling of need was.

It _felt_ like hunger. That sort of emptiness at the pit of his stomach, a pang that cried out for satisfaction. But, somehow, it resided lower, aching at the very base of his belly, and resonating out to his teeth and heart and tongue. He wanted to be filled, to drink and consume until there was nothing left, but somehow it wasn’t hunger like he had ever known. It was _starvation_ , like he had scarcely eaten in days and was suddenly presented with something hot and dripping and steaming. And his mouth could hardly contain the wet flood that sprang forth from below his tongue.

“Open your mouth,” Hannibal commanded him, and he did so immediately, as though the doctor’s word was law, tipping his head back and exposing that lovely neck, thrusting out his tongue like a dog begging for treats. He didn’t know what was coming, didn’t know what his compliance would be rewarded with, but he had some idea. It did not scare him, though it made him feel young and green and inexperienced. He felt like he was stepping on eggshells, unwilling to be the instigator of this debasement, but somehow wanting to show him that he was ready, that his twisted, awful, horrifying desire was finally ready to manifest in whatever Hannibal was ready to give him. And, God help him, he would take it, all of it, whatever he was given, with his mouth open and begging.

It was a stirring sight, Hannibal considered as he stared into the eyes of his younger... Friend? Lover? Enemy? All of those things at once and yet none of them at the same time. As he looked down at the man on his knees, whose mouth and nose and lips and teeth were practically urging towards the ever tightening fabric of his trousers, whose tongue was stretched out and dripping with the moist, hungry secretions of his hunger, dropping clear down his chin and in his beard, he almost dropped the knife in his hands in favour of taking his meal still breathing, consuming him in a very different way to what he had planned for them instead. But one thing stopped him, and he reminded himself that deferred gratification was much sweeter and much more satisfying than having everything he wanted at once.

“Drink deep, William,” he said, “drink your fill.”

And then he dug the sharp, thin blade of his knife into the hanging man’s jugular and _dragged_ , pulling the finely tempered steel through skin and muscle alike. In an instant, blood fell like a waterfall, gushing from the wound in hot, sticky waves, drowning everything in a sea of red, red, red.

The man scarcely had time to react. If he was scared, he was never afforded the opportunity to cry out, to beg, to struggle. He convulsed limply for a moment and then he was gone, his last breath gurgling through the pursed gouge at his throat, his legs and arms hanging like dead weights.

It was quick and messy, but had a certain ritualistic elegance to it that Hannibal would have usually appreciated, watching the blood fall to the ground like silk scarves in a breeze, soft and delicate and rich. Now, though, he couldn’t bring himself to notice the beauty of his design, wouldn’t care if the man was spilling rubies from his veins. Because his eyes were firmly set on Will, and he couldn’t look away if his damned life depended on it.

Straight into his open mouth, blood dripped in thick ropes that stuck and hung like links of pearls from his teeth, pouring down his neck and overflowing from his tongue. And, as he swallowed, the cherry at his red stained neck bobbed up and down with heaving desire, drinking deep and long at the hot life that was falling out of another human being.

It soaked his shirtfront, sticking to him like he had been caught in the rain, clotting in garnet jewels in the dark hair of his beard and the stubble that lead down to his chest. This was all wrong, all so raw and foolish. He was dripping with the evidence of their crime, swallowing it down in hungry, fevered gulps, soaking himself in it until he was little more than blood and bone and hunger. It was in his hair and under his nails, drenching him red until he was a forensic wet dream.

But Hannibal couldn’t bring himself to care. If this was how they were caught, how their art was discovered and punished, then Hannibal wouldn’t have it any other way. To see his Will, on his knees, begging with his hips and his eyes and his tongue, taking blood straight down his throat and gulping for more... This would make any fate he faced worth it.

As the flow of life began to halt its surge, slowing from a gushing river to a dripping, leaky faucet, Will finally dragged his gaze from Hannibal’s, swallowing thickly and lowering his eyes to the floor in embarrassment. How had it come to this? How far had he come from his cabin, his dogs, his isolation, all the way to falling to his knees at the command of a murderer and a monster, desperate for satisfaction? Though his mouth was filled with another man’s blood, his sudden shyness was drawn more from the knowledge that, in the back of his darkest desires, he had been expecting to, maybe hoping to, receive a very different reward for his obedience.

He looked back up to Hannibal through his thick lashes and licked purposefully at the staining around his mouth, but what he found in the Doctor’s face surprised him. In the stead of his usually tightly composed features, his narrow eyes and his tight lips, burned a breathless flame of thirst, a dry sort of need that sought to be quenched. Will finally found a handful of words, though his voice was suddenly very small.

“Straight from the cow,” he said with a nod.

But as soon as the words had left his mouth, cutting through the silence and reverence of it all, Hannibal had his hands at Will’s throat, dragging him from the floor and to his feet, before pushing him back to the wall, his eyes piercing into Will’s as though they might bore right through to his unique, beautiful brain. He could feel Will’s pulse quicken beneath his fingers, and he smiled wolfishly. It heartened him, a little, to know that the danger, the fear, the threat that lived between them still lived in Will’s veins and, even more pleasing, it seemed to thrill Graham as much as it did him.

He tightened his grip on Will’s neck, his fingers rigid against hard, stringy muscles and for a split second he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. There were so many pleasures to suffer, so many different outcomes that would all be so beautiful, but after a hungry moment, he leaned down to the younger man and drove his mouth onto Will’s, bruising his own lips with blood and tasting the sweet copper of someone else’s life.

Will was unreceptive for a second, drinking in the feel of teeth and tongue invading the bloody crevasse of his mouth but, after a second’s deliberation, he gave as good as he got, devouring just as hungrily as he was devoured, like the snake eating its own tail. He was Ouroboros, and he would swallow his pleasures as they swallowed him. They would both end up as beautiful, half-eaten corpses, ravaged by every sharp edge that the other had to offer and though he knew that this road led only to hell, the beating pulse in his veins that shocked through to his throat and his cock and his fingers and his aching heart.

He let out a moan of pain and pleasure as Hannibal pulled his mouth away, leading his tongue around his lips and down his throat, drinking every last drop of sticky, dried blood, delving deep into the shallow groove at the base of his throat which somehow made him feel like he could see eternity in a heartbeat. His hands were no longer restrained and virginal, opting instead to run hard down flat, heard muscle and over tight thighs, only ghosting shyly when they met a pitched bulge at the apex of his hips. At even the mightiest touch, though, Hannibal let out an unexpectedly needy groan that was at odds with the still, calm mask he usually wore.

“Down,” he ground out in a commanding tone, and he chewed at the sinewy slope of Will’s shoulder, “to your _knees_.”

And he did. Not a hint of question, not even a moment’s consideration. He would live on his knees if Hannibal commanded it, break his jaw to dust so that his mouth was ever the doctor’s to claim. He was bound to Hell, and he had accepted his fate, and even learned to love it.

“Are you...” Hannibal began, his voice thick and drawn, as though the words were converging with his lust in his throat, “Are you still hungry, Will?”

“Ravenous, Dr Lecter.”

And Hannibal didn’t need to offer anything more than that. Will knew what he wanted, had it almost in his grasp, and with the assent of his doctor’s heavily lidded gaze, he ran his hands up the chequered suit trousers, as slowly as his shaking fingers would allow. As he reach the top, fidgeting toward the buttons that held him back, Hannibal stretched out his arms and pressed his hands against the wall, looming over Graham and watching his every movement with an almost professional curiosity.

Slowly, deliberately, Will exercised his small modicum of power over Hannibal by agonizing over his relief, each button thrusting the pitch in his trousers stiffer and more prominent. When he finally pulled the seam apart, opening it wide and tugging it down a little more desperately than he would have liked to admit, the hard flesh of Hannibal’s erection sprung free, straining in unsatisfied agony. The very release of it sent a hiss through Hannibal’s teeth.

Swallowing hard, Will drew the very sight of it in; somehow, had he always known it would come to this? He could not pretend that his relationship with the doctor had ever been strictly professional, but he was beginning to doubt now that he had ever _wanted_ it to be. He couldn’t honestly remember a time during which he hadn’t wished to be here, on his knees, worshipping Lecter like a god.

With his mouth open, hot breath raking out over soft skin, Will ghosted along the hard, thick length of Hannibal’s cock, desperate to drink it down but scarcely knowing where to begin. His hands, once awkwardly static at his hips, slowly migrated to his pelvis, and finally dared to grasp at the firm length, wrapping fingers around the base and then slowly dragging his grip along the shaft. It took only one sustained pull to elicit a dry groan from the back of Hannibal’s throat.

He was - a European in many aspects - uncut, and Will watched with delicious fascination as his hands pulled the velvety flesh down from the smooth, tight head of his cock. It shone with moisture, damp with arousal, and with his tongue straining for its prize, he sought to taste, swallowing dryly with the anticipation of filling his throat so beautifully and so fully.

But as he almost claimed him with his mouth, Hannibal tangled his hand into Will’s messy curls, scrunching his fingers tight and slamming the back of his head into the wall, his composure at its very last. His chest was heaving with desire, entirely undone by the slow, careful ministrations of this _boy_ , this one-time _pedestrian_ who had somehow torn Hannibal’s carefully painted walls down about his ears and reduced him to a monster of desire, scarcely able to find his dignity in the firepit eyes of his kneeling lover.

Oh, he would love him.

He would love him hard and monstrous and violent, love him like a beast loves a maiden, love him like war, and fireworks and hatred. He would love him until they were both damned, love him until they hated the sound of one another’s voices, love him until they craved each other like oxygen, like water. He would make Will regret ever making him love him, and he would ensure that it would never stop.

Because as he slammed Will’s skull hard against the wall, dragging his head back so that his lovely, long throat was open and exposed to him, that lovely boy looked up at him from under long lashes and, with those eyes like fire, _like fire_ , he begged.

And Hannibal delivered.

He thrust forward with untamed aggression, filling Will’s waiting mouth with his cock, sliding into the desperate wetness with more need than he was sure he had ever felt. As soon as he hit the back of his throat, Graham let out a short, sharp moan, muffled around the fullness of Hannibal’s length, his lips tight and straining. The sight of it was almost enough to tip the doctor over the edge.

He pulled at the tight curls with both hands, pulling Will harder and harder onto his cock, Will’s tongue moving thick and moist over his skin in a way that made him want to cry out in pleasure so intense that it almost pained him. Every movement that Will made was exquisite in its untrained fervour, from the way his eyes watered with swallowed retches at his tried to accommodate the large intrusion in his throat, to the stringy ropes of saliva that dripped from his honeyed mouth and tied him to his lover’s cock.

And Will took it all. His head ached with the force of Hannibal’s violence, but it pounded with the sort of pressure that was sending lightning down every inch of him and pooling in his groin. He pulled his hands away from where they sat at Hannibal’s hips and fumbled to find his own hard, needy erection, but as Hannibal noticed the pathetic scrabblings at his own jeans, he hissed:

“Don’t you dare, Will.”

And why did he obey? He couldn’t say. But at Hannibal’s command, he stopped and returned his hands to Hannibal’s side. But as the doctor fucked his face and pulled his hair and used him like an awful, disgusting toy, he found his hips began rutting at the air like an animal, desperate to realise urges that he couldn’t even begin to understand. And with every thrust, the fabric of his underwear and his jeans scored across him with friction that made him cry out around Hannibal’s cock, soiling himself with his own release in mere, humiliating moments.

And as he moaned out his ecstasy, as his throat vibrated with the song of his desperate need, Hannibal’s fervent thrusts became harder and wilder and more hateful and loving and fraught, until finally he cried out long and lingering, a throaty whine that died to a whisper as his cock unloaded hot and wet into Will’s already full mouth.

And he drank it down, every last drop.

Hannibal had been right, he thought in a rare moment of clarity amongst the hunger and desire. It was like nectar, thick and bitter and warm. It was like milk, and with it he was nurtured and brought to life, reborn, rerealised and brought into the world in his mother-lover-enemy’s image. And as the hot come shot in pearls down his throat, he grabbed at Hannibal’s hipsand pulled himself as far onto his twitching cock as he possibly could, swallowing his meat and devouring his lover until the doctor had ridden out the last wave of release.

When it was all over, they stayed there for several long moments, a tableau of hedonism and shame, a hanging corpse watching with judgement as Hannibal’s cock softened in his disgraced lover’s mouth. After the heaving breaths left Hannibal’s chest, he finally pulled his hips away and his length fell limply from Will’s lips, dragging spiderweb strings of saliva with it, leaving the boy hunched and empty on his knees.

Smoothing himself over with his palms and tucking himself back into his trousers, Hannibal lowered himself to the ground beside Will. Blood drying quickly down his chest, his mouth raw and pink with the tightness and friction of his assault, his eyes red-rimmed with gagging-tears - he was a mess. He could scarcely even lift head on his exhausted neck to look up from the floor.

Hannibal removed his suit jacket, shrugging it off of his shoulders and held it out in his hands, before wrapping it around Will’s hunched shoulders. The younger man looked up in surprise and found Hannibal’s face kind as he tucked the expensive fabric around him. When he was satisfied that he was snug, he held one of his long hands over Will’s cheek, scrubbing at the dry blood with a soft thumb.

Will leaned his head into Hannibal’s warm hand, closing his eyes briefly and smiling, a little hum of contentment escaping his lips. With a sore, slightly croaky throat, he asked:

“Shouldn’t we start to clean up?”

“It can wait,” Hannibal told him in a soft voice, “you come first.”

“Only just,” Will joked weakly, his eyes holding all the mirth that his mouth could not yet conjure, and Hannibal chuckled with a shake of the head.

“Only just,” he agreed, before holding out his arms and pulling Will to his feet, supporting him around his waist and leading him in the direction of the door. He really did mean it, he realised, surprising himself. Will really did come first now. There was a bled-out body to carve, and a suit to dry clean, and a tiled-room to hose down and bleach, but it could wait. His Will Graham deserved a shower, a kiss, and maybe some dinner, if he wanted it, and those things he would get.

The rest would just have to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Aftercare's important, kids.


End file.
